


Ship of Theseus

by Goldenrayofsunshine



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: ...the egg, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Horror, Manipulation, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Not RPF, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Possession, Post-Canon, Psychological Horror, Resurrected Wilbur Soot, Self-Sacrifice, Smart Tubbo, Suicidal Thoughts, TAGGING SYSTEM BURN IN HELL, TheraPuffy, TommyInnit Needs a Break (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, all endermen are autistic bc I said so, autistic ranboo, revivebur, serious fic again I promise, society has progressed past the need for Philza Minecraft, the DSMP characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenrayofsunshine/pseuds/Goldenrayofsunshine
Summary: Something’s reaching out for Tommy’s shoulder in the dark. Something tall with bony hands that’s found a way past his locked door and knows the boy is only pretending to be asleep. But he’s awoken to the very first sounds: the open-palmed slapping at the knocker, the flowerpot knocking over, the retrieved key clicking in the lock. The intruder acts so familiar and Tommy’s so afraid that he goes limp and refuses to open his eyes.“Did you miss me?”***Tommy reunites with someone he never expected to see again. Why doesn't it all feel okay?(The ship of Theseus, also known as Theseus’s paradox, is a thought experiment that raises the question of whether an object which has had all its components replaced remains fundamentally the same object.)
Relationships: Ranboo & Wilbur Soot & Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 44
Kudos: 146





	1. The Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> The Disc War Finale went slightly different here: there is no resurrection book, Tommy killed Dream three times, the prison is still empty.

Something’s reaching out for Tommy’s shoulder in the dark. Something tall with bony hands that’s found a way past his locked door and knows the boy is only pretending to be asleep. But he’s awoken to the very first sounds: the open-palmed slapping at the knocker, the flowerpot knocking over, the retrieved key clicking in the lock. The intruder acts so familiar and Tommy’s so afraid that he goes limp and refuses to open his eyes.

“Did you miss me?”

_ No, _ Tommy thinks hazily,  _ No, it’s not -- the phantom doesn’t use doors.  _ Still, who else? “Ghostbur?”

“Oh,” says the man with a light laugh, “I’m not Ghostbur.”

Tommy jolts upright, all traces of drowsiness gone. “ _ Wil _ bur?”

“Hi, Tommy. I said I’d be back.” His voice is kind and his smile warm as he sags against one of Tommy’s dirt walls. “Sorry to scare you.”

“D-don’t, don’t” he can’t keep the stutter out of his voice, “Don’t break into people’s houses as they sleep, then, bitch!” 

“You weren’t answering your door,” Wilbur explains, tucking the stolen key into its owner’s hand. In his frayed brown hair, Tommy notices a prominent white streak, “And I needed someplace warm to spend the night.”

Tommy can’t comprehend what he is looking at. In the flickering yellow torchlight, Wilbur seems like he’s dreamed him. “ _ where _ … where did you come from?”

“Thataway,” and Wilbur gestures vaguely out Tommy’s front door behind him. 

“Are you…?” he reaches out for his brother’s forearm, expecting the slim wrist to dissipate at his touch.  _ Are you real? _ But it’s solid. “Are you okay?”

Wilbur snorts, a huge, hearty sound that seems to fill Tommy’s modest shack. “I’m alive.”  _ How, though?  _ How? Tommy’s eyes travel to his brother’s chest. Is a gash there, a scar? A wound bleeding either red or blue? But Wilbur wears a yellow cashmere sweater underneath his smoke-stained overcoat so there’s nothing for Tommy to inspect.

Fuck, there’s not supposed to be a power on earth that can bring back the truly dead. Still, here is someone he loves, strong and clever and funny as he remembers, standing over him, and Tommy doesn’t want to ask questions.  _ Impossible?  _ Hell, he’ll take it.

Wilbur fusses with his hair, pulling the white patch down over his eyes. He stares at the ringlets and his lip twists.

“You’re getting old, man,” Tommy teases.

“Something like that.”

Wilbur has been gone so long. Wilbur left when Tommy really, really needed him. And he’s angry about that, and hurt, and confused, but none of that stops him from curling up into his older brother’s arms. He’s hugged, he’s held. After all those lonely months that no one would touch him, not even Dream, his brother is so warm. The ghost had tried, but was always immaterial, and that was the absolute worst part. But now Wilbur is back, firm and alive and giving him a real hug.

“Are you hungry?” It’s the middle of the night, but that doesn’t matter. Tommy is filled with nervous energy.

Wilbur looks sort of wistful. “I haven’t eaten in a while.”

Tommy shows off his carrot farm, pulling two of the sweet ripened vegetables out of the ground. He crunches into one and hands over the other.

Wilbur holds the carrot, his eyes glazed, staring at the frilly green stem. He shakes his head and lets it drop to the floor.

“Wil?”

But the man is bent double, rummaging in Tommy’s kitchen chests. He at last retrieves a rotisserie chicken and begins to suck the meat off the bones.

“That’s kind of rude, big man. You could’ve just asked.”

Wilbur’s gaze snaps back into focus and he wipes grease off of his chin. “Oh, right.” He sounds timid, almost tearful. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says Tommy, tucking the spare carrot into his pocket. “I bet being dead makes you forget all your manners.” At least Wilbur seems to be enjoying the chicken. In another lifetime, he was a stick of a man who ate disturbingly little. Maybe that is going to change.

Another lifetime. Oh, fuck.  _ Fuck _ . How dare Wilbur walk out of his life like that, like, like -- like a fucking coward, to skip out on so much war and trauma and bloodshed, only to come  _ back  _ like this, with no warning or explanation, to raid Tommy’s fridge? Just because he’s relieved to see his brother again, doesn’t mean he can’t also be furious. “Why did -- why did you?  _ Why? _ ” That’s a damningly familiar question. He’s asked it of himself, of the ghost, of his tormentor, of the stars. And all because Wilbur hasn’t been around to answer. The one man Tommy really needed.

“I’m sorry,” says Wil as he cries, as he curls up and makes himself small. “I shouldn’t have ever -- I’m so, so, sorry. Tommy.”

Like terrorism and suicide are the same as stealing chicken.

“Don’t forgive me,  _ don’t,  _ do  _ not _ tell me you forgive me, because you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to. I can’t -- I’m sorry.”

“Just tell me  _ why _ , Wil.” But the man holds silent, offers no explanation. Tommy sighs. “Promise me you won’t do it again.”

Wilbur squeezes his scarred hand. “Alright. I promise.”

***

Wilbur is glad to be back. Happy and hungry. There’s something within him now, some animus, much hotter and brighter than the cool, wet, phlegmatic soul he was born with. His limbs hum with radiant energy as he exits the mouth of the cavern and steps forward into the cover of night. His eyes pass over stars and snap to Mars on the horizon, a rusty red pinprick dot. Its position tells him months have passed since he last stood alive under an earthly sky. He does remember faded scraps of this time, but the memories are blurry and out of order. Something about a sheep. He’s craving red meat. He would slaughter a sheep even for a piece of raw mutton now.

He picks his way through rubble, lace-up boots stiff around his ankles to avoid a sprain. The ruins of New L’Manberg are almost impassable, especially for a man who had expected a crater but has no muscle memory of how to traverse it. He skirts the edge of the chasm itself, but the rim is littered with broken boards, scrap metal, and rocky ejecta.

Wilbur enjoys wandering at night. He’s always been an insomniac. He’d slept when he was dead and now he feels well-rested. Besides, the weather is temperate, cool with a thick cover of fog. He’s warm enough in his layered jackets. He runs a hand over his chest and crushes the droplets that have condensed onto the woven goat-hairs of his sweater. While he could stay out until sunrise, kicking rocks into the crater and enjoying the breeze, there’s someone he needs to see and he doesn’t feel like waiting.

He finds his way to his little brother’s burrow, its wooden hatch hinged directly into the earth. On Tommy’s doorstep, a long-stemmed poppy rests in the black soil of a ceramic planter. The decoration seems out of place, so Wilbur bowls it over and finds a cut brass key hidden beneath the pot.

He could call out, but he’ll let this be a surprise. He slips in silently and crosses a darkened storage room, chests packed to the brim and unorganized. He will shake Tommy awake and Tommy will appreciate it, just like old times.

***

Tommy once died twice in a single day at the hands of the same man. And more recently, he killed that man three times in the span of an hour. The first blow was hearty, hot-blooded, vengeful - an axe to the chest. Second an arrow shot from a crossbow, leveled in cold anger. Dream pleading for his final life had left the kid sick to his stomach but he’d done, he’d done what he had to do. He’d made the right choice. But it wasn’t the kind of thing you could just forget.

“Still angry, huh?”

Tommy hesitates, then nods assent.

“Here,” Wilbur offers, “Have some red!”

“Some  _ red? _ ”

“Yes!’ Wilbur withdraws a hand from his pocket, fingers and garment both gone russet as though stained with iodine. He presses something squelchy and crimson into Tommy’s grip.

“What -- what, what--?” It spasms against his palm, muscular as a tongue. It feels like a dirty kitchen sponge or a slab of meat. He squeezes the object and it huddles into his hold, expelling red fluid that drizzles down his intertwined fingers. He yelps, batting the Red away and leaping back.

“Would you like some more?”

“ _ No!  _ Wilbur! What the fucking shit is that?”

“Red,” says his brother, with a huge grin. “It’s great.” He reaches into his coat and pulls out another hunk, stretching it between his hands like taffy. “Remember how Blue makes you not sad? Red makes you strong. Red made me alive again.” He tugs down the collar of his shirt to reveal his chest wound, and Tommy sees that the gash has been bound up by some sort of pulsing crimson tendril.

***

Tommy steps back, pressing himself up against the dirt wall, and Wilbur feels fucking terrible. “I’m really not trying to scare you.” He drops the piece of crimson on the dirt floor behind him and crushes it with the heel of his boot, ignoring the corresponding pain that tracks up his spine as he does so. “There. No more red.”

“Man, do you even realize how creepy all of this is?”

Wilbur starts. It had all felt pretty natural, actually, but now that he thinks about it, he understands why Tommy is so wary of him. “It might seem a little better in the morning,” he says weakly, like an offer to spray out the monsters from under a child’s bed. “Would you like me to leave? I’ll go somewhere else for the night.”

“No! Stay here.” Tommy sounds frantic, even as he chokes out a laugh. “I should keep an eye on you, you know? In case you wander off and eat someone’s cat.”

Wilbur scoffs. He  _ loves _ cats, but -- yes, he really has developed a taste for meat. “If you’re comfortable, I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” says Tommy, “but…” and his hand tightens around the scabbard of an iron knife he keeps on his belt.  _ A knife Wilbur knows he’ll never have the conviction to use. _ “I’ve got this on me, for my protection, right? So if you go all zombie on me, I can stab the shit out of you.”

Wilbur reaches out for him proudly. As he draws Tommy into a hug, he whispers, “Do  _ not _ hesitate.” He can’t be allowed to go crazy and hurt his little brother. Not again. He sits awake and alert, even as Tommy relaxes at last and slumps back asleep in his arms. The kid doesn’t wake as Wilbur tucks him back into bed, pulling his soft white comforter up to his neck, making sure the knife is still within easy reach.

His first job done, Wilbur backs away slightly and sits by the fireplace. As he stares into the embers, he reaches down the front of his shirt and picks gently at the red threads that are holding him together. The squelchy crimson pulses twice as fast as a regular heartbeat.

Since when does the devil give second chances? Wilbur isn’t sure, but he swears he’ll make the most of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems fine.
> 
> please talk to me in the comments! i crave serotonin


	2. Crimson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sixteenth!

Wilbur stands beside Tommy as he sleeps. He’s interested in the way dreaming eyes flicker under closed lids. Yes, his baby brother looks so peaceful, except for all the stifled yelps and sobs and the way his arms twitch imperceptibly as though to throw a punch or wrap himself into a protective ball. But Wilbur is right there, within reach, when Tommy’s nightmares finally lurch him awake.

The fire’s dead. Tommy’s eyes are washed-out blue in the pale morning sunlight. “Uh. You want something?”

“No,” says Wilbur, “Good morning.”

“It’s just that you’re kind of --” he retreats into his arched shoulders, “--looming over me, you know?”

He steps back immediately, opening his crossed arms and slouching to appear small. “Sorry. Is this better?”

“Yeah,” says Tommy, his face reddened. “Thanks. It’s silly, but, uh, I get nervous.”

Wilbur understands, and he wants him to feel as safe as possible, so he sits down on the floor. “I don’t think I’m actually Wilbur.”

Tommy’s voice sounds small and hurt. “no?”

He’s been thinking about it all night. “No, Wilbur’s dead. He got stabbed, and then his body was buried in an unmarked grave.” He tilts his head. “I bet the bones are still there. We can check if you like.”

Tommy looks like he might be sick.

“I’m just something that the Crimson made.” He casts his arms wide; the red that flows through them is not quite blood. “But I remember being Wilbur.” He really does, clear as if it had happened to him. “All of it.” Not just the wars, but the little things too: birthday parties, reading picture books to the fidgety blond boy sat on his lap, watching the glow fade as lanterns drifted up into the darkened sky.

“That makes you --” Tommy coughs slightly. “Do you feel like you’re him?”

“I think so.”

“Then that’s really really good,” says the teen, and hugs Wilbur again, scrawny arms tight around his ribs. “You want breakfast? I have bread, steak, apples--”

“--Meat. Yeah, I want meat.”

“Okay, big guy. You gotta get your protein, you know. If you want to grow up big and strong.”

“Sure,” says Wilbur, and ruffles his shaggy hair. “Thank you.”

***

Tommy leans in toward the fingers on his scalp. He wishes he could be sure what he’s feeding, what he’s hugging. Something’s wrong, wrong, wrong, and this isn’t Wilbur, just a wiry expression of the Crimson come to trick him. Yet at the same time, here’s his brother, his dead brother, alive again, re-sanguinated with Red. This is a Wilbur who can hold him, tuck him into bed at night, protect him, someone who remembers what they’ve gone through together.

In some ways, the new Wilbur is better. In his original life, he’d been skinny, tragic, and fragile, with a wet, tear-filled voice that often caught in his throat. Slim, delicate, self-destructive, literary. Clever, sophisticated, unable to keep either himself or his friends safe.

The Crimson’s imitation of Wilbur is perfect, except for all the ways in which it has been improved. He’s stronger, sturdier, speaks with solemn confidence.  _ He seems much happier _ . Real Wilbur was never quite happy; there were tears in his eyes even when he was smiling. Which had brought about the end, the horrible incidents that Tommy had seen coming and yet been unable to stop.

So Tommy almost gives himself over entirely to the tall, charismatic, man who has returned to take care of him. Except that he remembers Ghostbur, and the memory stings.

***

_ “Hello, I’m Ghostbur!” _

Not long after the crater had cooled, the spectre had appeared: a translucent, washed-out version of the disgraced ex-president of the vanquished nation. He moved lightly over the ground, as though his spirit were only bound to the earth by static cling.

Tommy had tried to touch him and his hand had passed through with little resistance, as though the dead man were made of cold water. Hardly daring to hope, he’d whispered “ _ Wilbur?” _

“ _ Ghost _ bur.”

He was never Wilbur.

Even when Tommy had desperately fucking needed someone, the ghost wasn’t a real person. Without his memories he had no depth. No anger, no scheming, no plans. He couldn’t give hugs, or fight off monsters. He didn’t understand how bad it had ended up, hadn’t been able to get Tommy help. Hell, he wasn’t even as happy as he pretended to be. Blue dye had poured out of him, the only expression of his heart-melting sadness. Even as he held on only to his happiest memories, his echoey voice had been broken, moments from crying at all times.

Because Ghostbur wasn’t Wilbur, and Tommy hadn’t listened, and when he realized the full extent of his mistake it was like weathering the loss all over again. What if the same thing happens this time? Tommy can’t take another bitter disappointment. 

But it isn’t the same, surely, because this is Wilbur equipped with all his memories, his personality, his refinements. Sure, the evil entity that controls him has given him a craving for meat, but isn’t that Wilbur in there too, sawing into his filet politely with a fork and a knife and a cloth napkin placed on his lap?  _ Steak for breakfast. _ Tommy is having a strange fucking day. 

Yeah, he needs someone to talk to. Someone who isn’t Wilbur. Someone stable and consistent and sensible and kind. His most loyal friend. He steps outside to clear his head and Tubbo is standing right there already, faux-casual, on the fringe of Tommy’s front lawn, watching a moth. Tommy sighs. “Why are you  _ here _ ?”

“Just out for a walk.”

Tubbo really -- he really does this sometimes. Plants himself where he knows Tommy will be, and hangs around, peaceful and patient as a pet dog. Tommy takes an unsteady breath. “Wilbur showed up last night.”

Tubbo tilts his head. “The ghost?”

“ _ Wilbur  _ broke into my house last night.”

“He what?”

“He’s in there right fucking now,” he points with his thumb, “Eating a sixteen-ounce porterhouse. And I don’t know what to do.”

“ _ Sixteen ounces? _ ” Tubbo frowns at the sun. “And it’s only eight am.”

“What? Focus.”

“Sorry.” His round face furrows with concern. “Wilbur’s alive?”

“I think so, yeah.” Tommy puts more distance between himself and the house, his whole body shaking. “But there’s, uh, there’s something really wrong.”

“Has he gone all crazy again?”

“No, no, not like last time at all. But -- and Tubbo, can we keep this between us for now?”

His friend nods.

“It’s the Crimson. The Egg. The Egg is what brought him back to life, what’s holding him together. And, well, I don’t think he’s evil, I think he’s still Wilbur, but he’s acting a little strange.”

“Like with the steak.”

“Ye-- yeah.”

Tubbo stands silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then, “can I see him?”

“Of course you can. please -” Tommy leads the other boy into his home, “Please help me figure out if he’s still my brother.”

***

The last time Tubbo saw Wilbur Soot alive was the day he was inaugurated president. He’d taken the job almost out of coercion. He didn’t crave that kind of power, but after the position had been turned down twice in a row, he couldn’t help but feel like his nation’s last hope. He remembers his speech: hurried, unplanned, from the heart.  _ What exactly does a president do? _

Well, first he rebuilds. But before he builds, he designs, and before that, he organizes. He gathers his people -- but who are his citizens? He addresses anyone who will listen. There’s no more whitehouse, no podium, he doesn’t even have a home anymore, so he hosts the first meeting of New L’Manberg outside, in a grassy field beside a freshwater lake. “We’ll rebuild,” he promises. It’s what Wilbur would want if he were in his right mind. But he’s not -- he’s not here.

Tubbo realizes much later that he was never intended to be President. He was set up. He was meant to die with L’Manberg in the explosion as a placeholder, a symbol. But enough of the country survived to heal, and his citizens pulled him out of the wreckage, and Tubbo’s condemnation became a career.

They rebuild, but they don’t refill. They make a lake of the crater.  _ What do I do?  _ he asks again, before realizing there is no answer. Adults don’t know, either, what to make of the world. But Tubbo is determined to be the best President his country has ever had, so he tries his best, and all the while Wilbur haunts him. Literally haunts him. During the reconstruction the ghost is more than helpful, working odd hours, carrying lumber and stone bricks.

Tubbo does his duty even when it makes him sick. He chooses his country over his best friend and a laugh bubbles up in his throat when it happens, because he’s finally realized what a President does. This position is a curse.

He touches his scar, holds onto the chain of the missing compass.  _ Shattered _ .  _ Wilbur, why did you do this to me? _

At least the man seems happy to see him. At least he smiles warmly when Tubbo walks through the door, beams with pride. His hair is streaked with white, as though he’s suffered. Maybe he can understand what Tubbo has been put through. And put others through.

But God, what if he remembers what Tubbo did to Tommy? Logsteadshire, Ghostbur’s,  _ Wilbur’s  _ second exile? He’s tried to kill Tubbo before, when Tubbo was a child, a bystander, and hadn’t even done anything wrong. And now? What if he’s furious about what’s happened to his little brother? What if his smile is colder than it looks? What if he picks up Tubbo right now, slams him into a wall, and finishes the job?

“Tubbo?”

and he can’t remember the last time anyone spoke to him that softly.

“How are you, man?” He blinks several times. “Tommy told me--”

_ Oh no, oh God no. Wilbur’s angry at him, and Tommy won’t defend him, and after all Tubbo’s done, why should he? _

“--That you almost died yesterday.” He reaches out a gentle hand. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes, he - Dream, he, didn’t hurt me all that badly. Tommy took most of the blows, protecting me, and my cut --” he runs his finger over the scab on his throat, the place where an axe had almost,  _ almost  _ landed, “--stopped bleeding hours ago.”

“I’m glad you’re not injured,” says Wilbur softly, “But Tommy is worried about you, and honestly, I am too.” He waves him over, and Tubbo, who is beginning to feel dizzy, sinks down gratefully into a chair. “Because from what I heard, Dream had you disarmed, pinned to the ground, with his sword to your neck, and promised to murder you --”

“That did happen, yes.”

“And I’m told you accepted it.”

“Well, there was no choice. There was no way out.” He shakes his head. “As far as I knew. Only one way out.” 

***

Wilbur shakes with rage. He keeps his face placid, and holds onto both boys very tightly. When Tommy had first told him the story, he’d seen red. Seen Red. Seen fantasies of a bloody smear covering Dream’s green cloak. “I’m going to -”

“I killed him already,” Tommy had said, sounding almost apologetic, “You can’t --”

“I’ll kill him also.”

“No, I mean… I took all three of his lives. He’s gone.”

_ Then who is Wilbur going to hit? Whose face will he ruin in revenge as he unleashes his flurry of protective anger?  _ He couldn’t calm down, there was red at the edges of his field of vision… until he’d noticed Tommy’s lower lip was trembling.

“I’ve never  _ killed  _ anyone before, even through all the war and violence and  _ getting  _ killed, I haven’t… I hadn’t had to--” He’d started crying, and Wilbur felt less angry than shaken. “I  _ had  _ to, and he deserved it so much, and I don’t regret it  _ at all _ but I really didn’t like it, the way it felt, and…”

“Tommy?” Wilbur had tried to comfort him but the boy was in another world, taking panicked gasps, reaching out away from his brother for someone who wasn’t in the room. As Wilbur held him, he’d taken out his communicator and sent a silent summons across the ocean. 

_ Wilbur Soot:  _ Come to Tommy’s house. Your friend needs you.

_ Tubbo:  _ Wiblur? alive wilbur?

And Wilbur had ignored the question, telling Tubbo to come, just come, wait on the lawn, and Tommy would find him as soon as he was ready.

So now he has them, both boys in one place, holding tightly to each other, alive. Hurt, so deeply hurt, but with a chance to heal. This is why Wilbur has come back: to undo his mistakes.

It’s all fine until the  _ earthquake  _ starts. A violent tremor rips through the house. The ground undulates, dirt clods shake from the rough ceiling. Wilbur can hear a dull crash as his glass rolls off the table and shatters. Tommy yelps and buries his face in Tubbo’s shoulder; Wilbur leaps forward to try and shield the two kids from falling debris. Tommy breaks off into sobs, but Tubbo remains silent and stares up at Wilbur, accusatory.

He whispers, “You brought me  _ here _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you seen how good Tubbo is at Among Us? Anyways --
> 
> please leave comment please I beg


	3. Best Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur means well.

Puffy calls herself a hero. So when she sees the house collapse in a puff of dirt, the red tentacle erupt from the ground and latch on like a giant octopus emerging from the deep to sink a ship, there’s not a doubt in her mind about what to do next. Conviction drives out all fear as she draws her sword and shield. After a brief battle the Crimson hisses and retreats. Lurking, not vanquished, but now is the time to focus on a rescue mission. Tommy lives here, and if he’s trapped under the rubble -- Puffy doesn’t want to think about it.

She begins sifting through the wreckage with her bare hands, but soon she notices Ranboo watching from a distance. The enderboy doesn’t like her: an unusual experience for Puffy, who counts herself as a friend to all, but perhaps it’s that same gregariousness that unsettles him. And even though it’s been years since her sea captain days, she still smells of ocean brine. But she doesn’t hesitate in recruiting Ranboo to help with the excavation. And he moves the dirt and grass deftly.

“I told Tommy not to build it out of dirt,” he mutters to himself as he works, “I told him this would happen.”

“It was the egg, I think,” Puffy explains, “I barely saw it, but one of the crimson vines whipped around and caused the collapse.”

“The vines move?”

“I guess so.” She shouts into the mess, “Anyone alive in there? We’re coming to get you out.”

A long silence, and then a muffled sound.

“Oh no,” says Ranboo, “Oh no, oh no, no no no no no.”

“Calm down,” says the knight, “That’s not helping.” He glares at her venomously and then switches over to enderman chirps.

“Captain Puffy?” calls a small voice from below, “Ranboo?” It’s definitely Tommy’s voice, and she sees Ranboo shudder with the same relief she feels. “We’re right here.”

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“We’ll live. Can you dig to the left a little please?”

She does, and uncovers Tubbo and Tommy huddled together, a lanky man in a trench coat spreadeagle on top of them. Tommy has several deep purple bruises, as though having hit the ground suddenly and taken most of the impact. Tubbo has a small gash on his shoulder and seems dazed. But Wilbur, despite having shielded both kids from the blow, seems completely unharmed. Which is especially weird because Puffy knows that he’s supposed to be dead.

She and the enderman help the three up, and Tommy fusses over Tubbo, poking gingerly at his cut. He stops when he realizes that the boy is silent. “Are you okay, man? Did you hit your head or something?”

“I’m thinking, he, he...” His speech is soft but not slurred. Ranboo retreats to a safe distance.

“Captain Puffy,” and he shakes her hand, “I’m Wilbur Soot. I remember you a little but it’s good to finally meet you.” His face is gaunt, the shadows under his eyes prominent. “Can I speak to you, please? In private?”

***

His gaze is hard and incredibly distant as she leads him into her tower. The mushroom theme is quite kitsch, but she finds that it relaxes people. Wilbur looks terrible; his teeth are chattering and his hair is gray with dust. When she offers him a seat in her armchair he remains standing, hunched in a corner. “Puffy; welcome to my home,” she introduces herself again. “Can I get you anything? Tea? A healing potion?”

He shakes his head and unbuttons his coat. She sees the crimson inlaid in his chest, the coiled tendrils writhing like a pit of snakes. “ _ Oh. _ ”

“It’s the blood vines. They made me alive again, and they’re  _ using  _ me to --” he shivers “--fuck, I’m not even sure what I’ve done, but you saw, you saw…” he sinks to his knees. “No matter what it looks like, I’m not a human being anymore. And you need to put me down.”

“What? no, that’s not right--”

“You don’t even know me; you don’t remember who I was; I’m nobody to you.” His voice is apologetic. “I  _ have  _ learned my lesson, after last time.”

She blinks.  _ What does he think I’ll do? Run him through with a sword right now, unprovoked, in my living room? Just because he’s asked? _ “I’m not going to -- look, what the hell would I tell Tubbo and Tommy?”

He just shrugs. “That you had to?”

“But I don’t -- Oh my God, okay, Wilbur.” Puffy presses a hand to her temple in exasperation. “I won’t  _ put you down _ , but I promise, I’ll stay close, and I won’t let you hurt the kids. No matter what. And if it comes down to it, I  _ will  _ kill you.”

He smiles gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Like hell you’ll kill him!” Tommy shouts through the keyhole.

***

“No,  _ Tommy _ ,” says Wilbur, his voice as cold as he can make it, “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.” Tommy wasn’t supposed to be here. Wilbur didn’t mean for him to  _ watch _ .

“She just said she’ll kill you! She can’t, she can’t--”

“Tommy. Tommy, calm down, I  _ asked _ her to--”

“That’s fucking  _ worse! _ ”

Wilbur knew he wouldn’t understand. He sees Tubbo grab onto Tommy’s shirt and tug him back. He can tell his brother appreciates the comfort and wants to do the same but he doesn’t have the right.

“I am  _ not _ just murdering him,” Puffy defends herself, “or helping him kill himself; Tommy, Tubbo, the deal is that I’m going to be a  _ knight _ again. I will be your protection, and I will do what I have to do in order to protect you both from  _ anyone  _ who wants to harm you, is that clear?”

Tommy just glowers at her sword, but Tubbo, beside him, seems to understand. He meets the Captain’s eye and nods solemnly. Wilbur knows he’s made the right choice, he can’t be allowed to go crazy and hurt the people he cares about,  _ again _ . But Puffy, no matter how deftly she wields her sword, is only one woman. She’s short and unintimidating, while Wilbur’s working on behalf of what might be a Dark God. He isn’t sure this precaution will hold, so he gives Tubbo his crossbow.

Tubbo accepts it cautiously and shows Tommy the inscription on the handle. “Chekhov's Gun II?” he reads, and steps back. “ _ Fuck _ you, Wilbur. You make me fucking  _ sick _ .”

Wilbur had thought the name was clever, actually.

“This isn’t okay! I don’t accept this plan. Stop doing things behind my back, for my own good, and  _ ask me what I actually want _ .”

Wilbur scoffs. “Do you want to get  _ murdered _ , Tommy, is that what you want? Because you have to understand that this egg is pure fucking evil, and…”

“You’re not the only one who  _ wants _ things, Wilbur. You’re not the only one allowed to make sacrifices.”

Wilbur doesn’t like what he’s hearing. He wants it to stop, he wants to block it out, his little brother shouldn’t be implying these things. “Shut up, Tommy. Tubbo, you -- hold onto this bow. You’re a smart kid, I trust that you’ll know when to use it.”

***

“You  _ better not  _ use it, Tubbo, I’ll--” Wilbur is tearing him and his best friend apart again. No, no, Tommy can’t let that happen. Now he sounds meek. “Please, please don’t. Just please don’t.”

“I won’t,” he says, but he doesn’t drop the bow. “I know how much you care about Wilbur, and you never want to give up on him, but we also have to consider the possibility that--”

“I don’t, I don’t want to think about it.” He presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes. “I need you to have my back.”

“Of course,” says Tubbo. “You can trust me. Trust me to make the  _ right  _ decision.”

***

Tommy’s house is destroyed: he’ll rebuild it, of course, in the exact same spot, and twice as ugly as last time. He’s stubborn like that, which Ranboo finds equal parts confusing and admirable. For now at least, they’ll hole up in Snowchester, far from the Crimson and hopefully safer.

Ranboo follows along: to leave would be to abandon his friends. But he’s very uncomfortable. He keeps a close watch on Captain Puffy’s sword. It’s not exactly  _ right _ , he thinks, the uneasy agreement she and Wilbur have come to. After all, he’s no stranger to being out of his own mind. If there’s a misunderstanding, or worse -- well, he prays he isn’t killed for his actions.

***

It’s cold in the cabin, even with borrowed fur-lined coats thrown over their shoulders. Tubbo keeps so many spare, like he intends his town to be a place of life and visitors, but the local climate is so hostile. Tommy can’t bear to live somewhere dark or cold. Wilbur sits in the corner with his legs crossed, no longer reaching out. And the knight separates the two brothers, her demeanor alert, her hand brushing the hilt of her sword as though to emphasize just how prepared she is to hold it to Wilbur’s throat.

How is anyone supposed to relax like this? How is he supposed to  _ sleep _ ?

Maybe he should ask Tubbo, because the boy is unconscious soon after nightfall. Tommy shakes his friend awake. “How are you  _ doing  _ that?”

“Light’s gone,” says Tubbo, “I’m gone. Not much point in being awake.” And it is quite dark: the moonlight through the windows is too dim for card games, or whittling, or reading, or anything else they’ve been doing to pass the time. “I’ll have the electrical grid set up soon.”

“Look at you, Tubbo, living in the Dark Ages. Aren’t you supposed to be some kind engineering genius?”

“This was wilderness a week ago,” Tubbo defends. “Infrastructure’s a lot of work. And, well, my focus has been elsewhere.” He touches the scab that’s still so prominent on his neck. “I’d hoped that after all this, after the fight, now that Dream is dead, we’d finally have a chance to relax…”

“We always expect that,” says Tommy, “And we’re always wrong. It’s just one fucking thing after another.”

“Can I go back to sleep now?” Tubbo asks. And Tommy lets him.

The knight places a hand on Wilbur’s chest as her eyes start to close. Tommy scrambles to his feet. “What are you doing?”

“Relax, I’m not hurting him--” she swallows a yawn, “It’s just late, and I’m getting tired. But I’m a light sleeper, so if he moves, I’ll notice. Don’t worry, Tommy, you’re safe now.”

That’s the opposite of what he feels. He feels desperate and alone, torn in two directions, both fearful and angry. He’s the last person awake and watches over his flock, certain that appearances are deceptive. When Wilbur’s eyes are closed he looks neither evil nor sad. Tubbo’s hand goes loose for the first time on the wood of the hateful bow he’s been carrying. Ranboo still somehow looks anxious even at rest, and Puffy - well, he hates her, the same way he hates Wilbur and Dream.

He fidgets, plucks hairs off his goosefleshed forearms. He’s always found unseen enemies the most sinister, the most difficult to fight. He can’t stay here.

He leaves quietly, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard. Puffy’s eyelashes flicker as he pushes the door open, but he freezes and she settles back into deeper sleep. He sets off across the snowfields, enjoying the styrofoam crunch under his heavy boots. He’ll return once he’s tired, but for now he’ll go face to face with the thing he’s facing and find out what the hell it wants.

There has to be a reason that all this happens to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the Wilbur I remember...
> 
> please leave comment please I crave serotonin
> 
> Next Chapter: Tommy confronts his demons.


	4. Chicken Or The Egg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people talk to each other. It's exciting I promise.

Tommy has known about the vines for weeks. The crimson infestation has become almost invisible to him, so familiar is the slow progression of the dense growth. But tonight will be the first time he sees the _Egg,_ the source, the thing the miners found in the cavern.

Now as he enters that excavated cave, he’s finally remembering to be scared. The vines carpet the floor and creep up toward the ceiling, branching into thin threads, the way arteries become capillaries. The room is dim and smells overpoweringly of blood and rust; Tommy’s own hands in front of him are cast in red as the only light comes from pockets of underground lava and the egg itself. Is this where Wilbur woke up? A small, confined room that smelled of gore? Tommy doesn’t like being here either.

So he stalks over to the corner where the egg rests, despising the squelchy wails where he treads, cracks his knuckles, and, confident as he can be, shouts “Hey! Bitch!” No response. He stares up at the strange red form: it’s shaped like a sugarloaf and looks spongy, fungal. It doesn’t much resemble any egg he’s ever seen, and he wonders why people call it one.

“I’m - I’m not just paying you a friendly fucking visit. You tried to kill me! And my friend, and I don’t know what you’re doing with Wilbur, so, so I’m here to yell at you and tell you what a piece of shit you are.”

He’s heard others say the Crimson speaks to them, though for Tommy it stays silent. But it does leave a heavy feeling in his head, like he’s coming down with a cold. “I could destroy you, you know. I could break you into tiny little pieces and burn you. And then, and then there’d be no problem.” He makes no move to strike his flint and steel. “There’s a time when this would have been easy for me, but, uh, he really fucked me up. I’m second-guessing myself now, all the time.” _Stupid fucking massive red idiot._ He slams into it with his knee and it quivers like gelatin. “I guess it would be a big hero moment for me to just _kill_ you right now. Everyone wants me to, even Wilbur, I bet.” He throws an angry punch that just sinks into the pillow-soft membrane. “But I’m so tired of giving up my shit for the greater good.”

He used to be so willing. He made his own home an embassy, and wagered his life for the same nation. Arrow in his neck, lost the discs he adored, his brother and his friends and exactly none of that felt like heroism. And when he’d experimented with selfishness instead karma had smacked him down so hard that he was still shaking. “Fucking speak to me. Just tell me why you’ve done this.” _But Dream can’t answer him, because he’s dead by Tommy’s own hand._ “Why to Wilbur? Why to me? God, who are you gonna hurt next?” _No, Dream can’t hurt anyone ever again._ That’s a good thing, maybe the only unequivocally good thing that Tommy’s done in his life.

He’ll take it.

***

Ranboo watches Tommy sneak back into Snowchester as the sky begins to lighten. The enderboy only sleeps one half at a time, first the left and then the right. He breathes a sigh of relief and disguises it as a peaceful snore: had Tommy stayed out any longer, Ranboo would have gone after him.

It’s in his nature for Ranboo to be solitary, to work and play and thrive by himself. But Tommy is different. He seems loud and happy, but as soon as he’s left to his own thoughts, he starts to wilt. He curls himself back to sleep on the floor, tucking his blond head under his older brother’s arm.

Ranboo doesn’t quite understand why Tommy is so attached to the people who have hurt him. Why he’d rather be hurt again than be left alone. No matter how angry he gets, he always seems to forgive out of desperation.

Maybe because Ranboo’s of ender ancestry -- his tall mysterious people are worlds contained unto themselves, wanderers throughout all three known dimensions -- he’s satisfied to spend a day inspecting each angle of a flower or mushroom. Would he be more human if he shared Tommy’s fiery emotions and loyal bonds? Would he be happier?

It doesn’t seem _right_ , that Tommy and Wilbur hold each other the way Puffy holds her sword and Tubbo his new crossbow. Surely this can only end in tragedy. Is it real, the joy they eke out in the meantime? Is it worthwhile? What if Ranboo left right now and never looked back? Would it be a betrayal to walk out on these madmen?

No, but they need him. Ranboo can see the sides of things. It doesn’t make his life easy, but he connects his ideas in a way no regular human could. He can help, so he has a duty to help. It’s not about friendship or heroism, it is simply his role as far as he can understand.

He’ll serve that role.

***

For a second after he wakes, Tubbo is seized by panic. He’s forgotten where he is, that he’s safe at home in Snowchester, that his house is filled with people and those people are friends. Even as he remembers, he has a hard time believing. It’s a long, slow moment before he can settle his breathing. “Minutes Man,” he mumbles, because his strange ender friend is certainly not sleeping. He’s grateful for the company.

He greets Tubbo in his deep but shaky warble. They step outside onto the front porch so their conversation won’t disturb the others and watch the sun rise over the half-frozen ocean. “Tubbo, are you alright?”

“I’m alive, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to Punz and Puffy and Quackity and Sapnap and Sam and all the rest.”

“You were there too. Every single person counts.” And it was Ranboo specifically he’d stood next to for safety and comfort, while Tommy yelled and drew blood. “And, well, I’ll be honest: I can’t believe anyone came. We’ve not been too popular.”

“No -- a lot of people feel a lot of ways about Tommy, but everyone likes _you_ , Tubbo. Nobody wants you to die.”

“And yet.” Could it have come down to the bystander effect, that time he was executed with everyone watching? He’s forgiven his murderers; he tells himself he holds no resentment, but it’s so easy to be passive-aggressive. By the time he faces death, after his experience at the Festival, he has long since learned that life isn’t a storybook with reinforcements who save overwhelmed soldiers at the last minute. _And yet._

_“You should have paid me more.”_ Wasn’t that what he’d heard the mercenary say as Tubbo knelt on the stone with his eyes closed? It is such a good _hero’s_ line, because it isn’t heroic at all. Punz didn’t care about right or wrong but he could be bribed. There are no heroes anymore. The population runs out.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk about L’Manberg,” says Ranboo.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“I wanted to apologize. You confided in me, and I’m sorry that your trust was misplaced.”

“You did what you thought was right. None of us expected… I’ve been a spy before, and it tore me apart getting caught in the middle.” He touches his starburst scar. “I’m not going to make your decision easier.”

“I’ve only ever known you as a president,” says Ranboo, “and I always wondered how you’d gotten the job.”

Tubbo just shakes his head. “I wish I’d been elected.”

***

Tommy can’t breathe, he wakes up drowning again. But no, that’s not water on his face, he’s not in exile anymore. It’s hands, huge strong hands closing around his throat and closing off his windpipe. _Dream’s back, somehow, giving Tommy what he deserves._ He can’t cry out for help and bleary spots appear in his vision, his chest and head stretched in tandem aches. The stranglehold gets even tighter, and Tommy reaches down for his knife but he can’t find it, he’s losing control of his arms.

It’s… oh God, Wilbur’s killing him. Not Wilbur, the Egg. Wilbur wouldn’t do this.

“Get the hell off of him!” Captain Puffy lunges into action, leading with the handle of her sword instead of the sharpened blade. She strikes Wilbur hard in the back of the head and he crumples to the floor, his grip slipping off of Tommy’s neck.

Tommy stays flat on his back and desperately sucks in air. He coughs and heaves. Tears stream down his face, though he doesn’t want the woman to think he’s some kind of fucking crybaby.

“Tommy,” she asks, “Are you alright?”

He tries to say yes, but his throat is so hoarse he can only squeak. He points at Wilbur’s prone form. “--he...he…”

“That’s why I’m here. You’re safe.”

His eyes dart across the room. “Tubbo? Ranboo?”

Puffy points out the window toward the porch. “They’re outside, having a chat.”

“...Is Wilbur going to be okay?”

“I had to give him a concussion. He’ll have headaches, be sensitive to light for a while. And when he wakes up, I’m sure he’ll be very upset about what he’s done.”

Tommy looks at his brother, slumped on the floor facedown, his legs splayed at odd angles. He looks like a marionette with snapped strings.

“Go see your friends, okay?” says Puffy, pointing him gently toward the front door. “Wilbur and I need to have a conversation.”

Tommy covers his neck with his green bandana and steps out blinking into the bright outdoor light.

***

Wilbur wakes up. That wasn’t the plan. The sun glinting off the snow catches his eye and he winces.

Puffy leans over him, stirring a small bottle. She’s diluted a healing potion with ice water and she pours it down his throat before he can protest. 

“What happened? Why does my head hurt?”

The knight rolls her eyes. “You can drop the act, you stupid asshole.”

“You were supposed to kill me,” he admits, eyes watery, “You said you would, if I ever hurt the kids.”

“I promised I’d do it if I had to. I didn’t _have_ to. Nonlethal force was more than sufficient.”

Wilbur’s face feels hot and itchy. The plan hasn’t worked. He’s hurt Tommy and it has been for nothing. “Puffy, I’m a time bomb. Eventually you’ll be too late, or I’ll overpower you, and Tommy will die. I was trying to give us both an out. You were supposed to kill me today and feel alright about it.” His head feels foggy, cramped, full of foam. 

“Haven’t you seen the way Tommy looks at you? Looks up to you? He needs you, Wil. You can’t do this to him.”

His face twitches. “I don’t really have a choice, do I? I’ve done wrong, and I have to atone for it.” He really feels ill. His thoughts come slowly, and he’s slipping. “Can you be quieter?”

“I’m sorry,” says the Captain, “You’re injured. I’ll give you time to rest, and remember, you can have another potion in a half hour.”

He nods as she steps out of the room and leaves him wrestling for control of his own mind.

***

Tommy is laughing with the other boys as he catches snowflakes on his tongue. Tubbo rambles about underground wires, and Ranboo doodles in his memory book. Tommy won’t tell them about the new bruises on his neck. He doesn’t want to worry them. He doesn’t want this fun to end.

Wilbur comes up upon them waving, a familiar shine in his eyes. He pats Tommy’s shoulder, his hand gentle again. This is the man he knows, the brother he loves so much. “You’re right, Tommy. Right about all of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking, and I agree with you. You’ve given up too much for people, for countries, that don’t give you anything in return. So you shouldn’t lose me, I don’t think. You deserve to be selfish.”

Tommy lets himself be taken into a strong, safe, hug, and tries to quiet the frantic voice in the back of his mind that says that this isn’t Wilbur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twisty turny  
> (no beta and i'm too tired to proofread so wannabe copyeditors help me out)
> 
> please leave comments please it makes my day
> 
> not abandoned, i'm coming back to this soon.

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a crossover fic: I'm not tagging into the other fandom because I'm not using any of their characters and they are small and probably want nothing to do with me. However, I did take inspiration from John Dies At The End, a surrealist science fiction novel by David Wong, and its sequels, all of which I recommend highly.


End file.
